The Barrows. Another pureblood family from the long lines of Slytherin ancestry. It's 1991, and Elmira and Clyde Barrows' daughter's first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has arrived.
The Wizarding World is not safe to our young O...
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"𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬."
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☽
Ophelia hadn't expected it to be so cold, her woollen socks and riding boots barely enough to keep her legs warm. Draco had graciously offered her his scarf, hoping in some ways it would spare her from the bitter air that nipped at her knees, but alas, it did not work. Tugging her socks as she desperately tried to cover one inch more of exposed skin, Ophelia spotted Draco on the field, clad in an old set of quidditch padding and old, worn jersey, its white branding partially ripped at the seams. The jersey seemed to be two sizes too big for him, but beside him, he was carrying his new broomstick, a Nimbus Two-Thousand and One, the latest model. Harry had received his own Nimbus Two-Thousand just last year, donated by an anonymous buyer. So it wasn't unlike Draco to try and one-up Harry, and this was it. Literally.
Draco was engaged in a secretive conversation with Marcus Flint, a sixth-year who had made captain last year. He was rather ugly, Ophelia had to admit. His hair was cut in an unfortunate way that looked to sit unnaturally on his greasy head, with crooked teeth that always bared when he stared down girls in the hallways. Ophelia generally tried to steer clear of him as he lumbered around the common room with his own group of goons. She could see Draco was talking in hushed whispers; his head bowed just so with a devious smirk plastered across his face before quickly showing the captain his broom. Flint was smiling as well, a toothy grin with a hint of malice behind it.
The older boy patted Draco on the back and led him back to the group of hopeful players and spread them out in formation, letting them pick up brooms from the lending pile in the middle of the pitch or get their own from the sidelines. Draco mounted his broom with pride, pushing off the ground. He flew high: ten, twenty, to fifty feet in the air, now level with the raised stands. Ophelia watched in awe, wondering how it must feel about flying so freely, like a baby bird stretching its wings. Yet, as much as she yearned, she was afraid of Quidditch and its brutality. Even if she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, it just wasn't for her.
Suddenly, Ophelia felt a hand on her shoulder, clamping down hard and causing her to emit a small yelp, pulling away from her attacker. Turning around, she was delighted to see the beaming, pink-cheeked Jonah Nettle, also wrapped in his own house scarf.
"Sorry, did I frighten you?" Jonah lifted his hand gingerly, a look of shame washing over his face.
"No, not at all Jonah." Ophelia smiled sweetly, scooching over on the bench to make room for him, even if the stands were practically empty. Turning to look at her friend, she could finally look at him properly now, when she wasn't overwhelmed by the new year and people to find. He looked older now, his head now grown into his ears just a little bit more.
"Excited to be back?" Ophelia asked, breaking the silence as she watched the people fly around the pitch, practising turns and flips and whatnot. Draco seemed to be executing everything with almost perfect accuracy, which appeared to be enough for Flint.
"Yes, though it took me a lot of trouble. Mama was worried about me going back after all the events with your friend, Potter." Jonah said aimlessly, though Ophelia's heart dropped. Maybe it wasn't just Harry and his friends who were affected, perhaps they shouldn't have interfered with what they didn't know, and it caused a whole lot of uproar. Even her parents had their doubts, but it passed within a few days. In a quick attempt to respond, Ophelia jumbled a few of her thoughts together.
"I'm not sure if we're friends anymore. We've barely been able to talk so far."
Draco was now zooming around the pitch, passing the other students in a race to get around the pitch, though he seemed to be cutting corners like freshly cut butter on toast.
"Well, it's only a few days into term," Jonah said, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll get a lot of chances." Ophelia nodded, sharing a calming smile with the boy, who also wrapped his scarf around his neck one more time.
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☽
The two chatted aimlessly for the rest of the tryouts, eventually standing as Flint gave his final words to the students on the field. Waving goodbye to Jonah, who smiled an extra-wide grin, Ophelia descended the stairs onto the pitch and walked over to Draco. He was engaged in yet another discreet conversation with Flint, talking in hushed but stern whispers. As she grew closer, Ophelia caught wind of a few words.
"–keep your promise Malfoy, and you'll have the spot."
Ophelia flanked Draco quickly and watched the captain's face furl into an unsightly frown, opening his mouth to say something, but Draco held up a hand.
"It's okay, she knows."
Marcus then shut his jaw, nodding to Draco before shuffling over to the Slytherin locker room to get undressed. Ophelia jabbed Draco in the arms, raising a questioning eyebrow at his statement.
"What do I know?" She asked. Draco sucked at the inside of his cheek before speaking a few well-selected words.
"I will tell you later." He said, holding out an arm to her, to which she took gently.
